


A Bright Red Bird

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2012, M/M, Season: four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's the luxury he allows himself, the present given to him that keeps giving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bright Red Bird

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted [here](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/247014.html).]

Alastair has a routine. He follows many of his students, corrects, cajoles, so they reach their full potential, but he always leaves Dean last. He looks forward to it; Dean's the luxury he allows himself, the present given to him that keeps giving. The nook he's put Dean in has been the same for the last seven years, heavily guarded at the entrance by two demons Alastair himself has chosen. They're loyal and sharper than the average demon, never let their guard down. Dean's still important, even more so now that Alastair finally broke him. The time has yet to come for Dean to leave them, to leave Alastair. Not that Dean wants to, not anymore, settled as he is in his new life. Alastair trusts him not to try anything, but the memories of Dean's messy, pathetic attempts to escape are all too fresh.

He enters in his smoke form, gliding low over the floor, then up to Dean's legs and back. Dean doesn't react visibly, though Alastair catches the small shuddering in his muscles, a reaction that's halfway between disgust and arousal. He smiles and twines himself loosely around Dean's legs and torso in an intimate embrace while Dean keeps working on the soul on the rack. Idly, he observes Dean's technique. Dean's precise, clean, he hardly needs indications anymore. It fills Alastair with pride that he was the one who made Dean like this, shedding away, layer after layer, all that was useless and pointless, carving Dean into a weapon, a blunt instrument. He had to cut deep with Dean, broke him in pieces, and then rearranged him over and over until he liked what he saw. Dean's been one of his best achievements, maybe the best and he's been a challenge but a satisfying one, especially when Alastair found all those well-kept secrets Dean guarded with his snarky come-backs and dubious humor. When plans will finally go through, he'll share the pride in his job with his Father. 

Choosing a form that keeps him hidden from the writhing soul on the rack, he coalesces behind Dean's back. It used to drive Alastair crazy that Dean would cling to his human form down here, not many do, adapting very soon to something closer to the shape of their souls. He considered it a bad habit he needed to break Dean from, but now he's used to it. He likes the long muscles that shift under him, the deep furrow of Dean's spine, and the span of his shoulders. Alastair loves the green in Dean's eyes, and how he can't hide his emotions: hate, love, eagerness, disgust. Pleasure. Alastair has no use for the human form: too fragile and transient, but Dean hanging onto it with such a stubborn determination leaves him exposed: when Dean will go back upside, his body will forever carry the memories of Alastair's touch. 

Alastair uses a talon to get beneath Dean's ribs, poking gently until blood coats his entire hand and drops in rivulets across his forearm. Alastair is not here to distract, but he's never made things easy for Dean. He'd wanted Dean to become his best, and he'd learned very early that Dean answered easily to sharp commands and barked orders and did his best if Alastair kept asking more and more, if he kept pushing until Dean stopped pushing back and just gave in. Even now, Dean doesn't react when Alastair wriggles his talon inside him; his face remains focused, brow furrowed and lips thin. When Alastair indulges in a hard caress on his flank, tiny beads of sweat break on Dean's forehead, glimmering gold and red in the flames. Alastair follows the curve of the hip to the fragile navel, leaves his hand there for a while, loose and ready. Dean's hand is steady on its task even when Alastair brushes against Dean's limp cock. 

Alastair nods his satisfaction against Dean's nape. 

With one last twist of Dean's wrist, the soul on the rack becomes rigid in its last paroxysm of death; it's not really death, just a brief oblivion, and a rare gift over here. Alastair wonders if the soul will be grateful to Dean for it, like Dean was grateful to Alastair when he granted Dean that same reprieve. 

For now, _he_ is grateful for the alone time with Dean. He lets Dean put the knife on the table before he turns him around, long talon still hooked deep under Dean's rib so Dean's leaning sideways on his arm. Dean's eyes are unfocused, blown wide and red-rimmed, white streaks of salt paint his face where sweat has evaporated in the intense heat. Alastair shakes him up harshly. When nothing happens, he curls a hand around his throat and presses hard until Dean reacts by memory alone to the need to breathe. He comes back with a noiseless gasp, gulps air he doesn't need. Alastair doesn't consider it a failure, not when Dean's so perfectly trained and putting shame and envy in most of Alastair's pupils, but it bothers him sometimes that Dean seems to go into a fugue when he's working the souls over. 

He kisses Dean with much more violence for that reason, biting his lips with razor-sharp fangs, burning the inside of his mouth with his tongue. Amused, he laps the sweet blood and Dean's tiny moans of pain, dragging the kiss on and on, stealing Dean's breath until Dean's seizes and finally, _finally_ , he relaxes completely inside Alastair's embrace. He whispers his approval inside Dean's ear, murmured words that only Dean can hear. Dean eyes snap back to stare at Alastair, the hate, always present, burning so very distant under something Alastair will call adoration, eagerness. A small smile breaks on Dean's bleeding lips.

Yes, Alastair learned very early that Dean reacts better to barked orders and sharp commands; he learned how to push hard until Dean stopped pushing back and _gave_ in wholly. But Alastair learned, too, that there was a faster way to make Dean do what he wanted, saw the involuntary surprise on Dean's face when Alastair showed his approval, the softening of his features he couldn't control. Alastair possessed Dean's body and bent his will with a knife, but it took only praising Dean for a job well done to take a hold of Dean's heart.

\--


End file.
